Love Takes Hostages
by Ebony Kain
Summary: response to a kinkmeme request for a Primus/Starscream fic, with Starscream as the immortal bondmate to Primus. Will take place in the same AU that A Mug's Game does.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Love Takes Hostages

**Author**: Ebony Kain (Ithilgwath)

**Rating**: totally worksafe (for now. Rating subject to change as the story progresses)

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I don't own Transformers (well, I own a couple action figures, but…). Nor do I own the Endless. Alas!

**Notes:** Written for the Transformers Anonymous Kink Meme. As the planet-sized bunny pounced me, I realized that I could work a story idea in with the fic I wrote before, **A Mug's Game**. So I am. For those interested, this is the address of the original prompt: tfanonkink. livejournal. com /10462. html? thread =9517022 #t9517022 (remember to delete the spaces)

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><p>"<em>I know how gods begin, Roger. We start as dreams. Then we walk out of dreams into the land. We are worshipped and loved, and take power to ourselves. And then one day there's no one left to worship us. And in the end, each little god and goddess takes its last journey back into dreams, and what comes after, not even we know."<em>

_Ishtar, in The Sandman #45:_ _Brief Lives #5_

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><p>Deep within the labyrinth of his own body, Primus dreams. He dreams of real things—ancient memories, shadowy echoes of his creations going about their daily lives, riddle-like conversations through the Matrix and Vector Sigma. He dreams of fantasies—walking amongst other living creatures of a size with him, holding someone precious, being held, talking about things as common and mundane as the weather, economics, art.<p>

Primus dreams of loneliness. He dreams of creation. He dreams of enslavement, dreams of rebellion, of victory and dreams of freedom. He dreams of the spark that isn't from his, coming and going and coming back, over and over again, raging at him for his silence, his sleep. The spark cajoles him with affection, begs him with love, threatens him with hate, with indifference, with anonymity—until finally, it stops coming back.

After the first aeon, Primus' dreams grow darker. After the second, the loneliness begins to sink back in. A third, and he ignores the calls of the Matrix and allows Vector Sigma to generate random patterns. The fourth brings dreams of disharmony, vice, decadence and squalor. The fifth is full of nightmares of death and pain and loss and sorrow. The sixth aeon is full of silence, and Primus' spark stirs restlessly.

The advent of the seventh brings a most peculiar dream.

Primus dreams he walks. Surrounded by creatures on all sides, some larger, some smaller, some of a size—Primus walks. They step in time, down a long path and through a gate. At the opposite end of the courtyard that is somehow both enormously huge and very small at the same time is a mausoleum. And Primus suddenly understands why and how they are all here.

And in the midst of The Dreaming, where people, and places, and concepts and dreams all come together to stand vigil at the Wake, Primus takes the opportunity to search for someone he lost aeons ago.

He is polite in his search, begging pardon from those his jostles, scanning the shifting crowd for one particular person—visually inspecting each face and body, parsing through snatches of conversations, hoping, hoping, _hoping_ that the spark isn't lost to him forever.

"Please," he whispers into the crowded night, "please."

He stops, then, arrested by the beautiful creature standing in front of him. Pale, elegant, dark of hair and yellow of eye and clad all in white. It watches him, smiling a strange, not-quite-real smile.

"Well, and here you are," it's voice is a strange pitch. For one so organic-looking, Primus cannot decide if it is male or female. "My brother won you, back then. But, well, he is gone now, isn't he? If I want to, I can finish what I started, can't I?"

Primus finds he cannot move as it approaches, something in him both thrilling and quailing at the soft threat of its tone.

A pale hand caresses the side of his face plate, and he can't see anything but those yellow eyes.

"Yes. I could make you lay waste to whole solar systems looking for him. I could make you hurt him, break him, all in the name of _keeping_ him," it murmurs, the yellow of its eyes flashing. And Primus can see it, can feel it deep inside like a magnet pulling him.

"I could make you do so much," it leans in, breath shockingly hot against his mouth plates. "...but why bother?" It steps back, hand leaving and the loss of that eldritch heat was enough to leave Primus swaying on unsteady legs.

"I win by default now," it continued. "You're already mine."

As it steps away in the direction of the mausoleum there is an opening in the crowd, as though the people had parted deliberately to give him a path to see down.

And there he is, in a form unfamiliar and familiar at the same time—vibrant red, silvery white, sweetly accented in blue. The wings are broad, held high and proud, fluttering lightly in attentive conversation with the creature he faces—another like the one Primus just escaped from but blue-eyed and clad in red. The form of his dearly missed spark is not one he's seen before, though it seems similar to those of his winged creations. But the face is the same—that dark, much adored face has not changed in a thousand thousand physical bodies that his spark has worn.

The female standing beside that spark notices Primus looking, and smiles warmly, though there is something sad clinging to her. She says something, and the spark he has been missing for aeons turns, and sees him. Primus expects anything from joy to fury—but to his bafflement, there is nothing. No reaction. The spark that he's loved and missed and desired simply looks at him, blankly, as if he cannot recognise the other half of their equation: You merged with Me equals We.

But before Primus can call out, before he can run to him, everyone is turning. The opening in the crowd that had allowed him to see closes. There are people between Primus and the spark he longs for, and he cannot push his way through.

And the night was over, and the day begins.

The stone doors of the mausoleum open (apparently of their own volition, for there was no one to open them) and the people, and the dreams, and the gods, and all manner of other creatures and beings, go in, each one after its fashion.

And already the conversations and indiscretions and intoxications of the night before begin to vanish, like the mists of night, in the heat of the morning.

The mourners take their seats, one by one, without hesitation or question. No one directs them, but they walk into their own seats and sit down, as quietly and efficiently as if they'd been rehearsing for this moment all their lives.

The people move as if their every move were foreordained, as if they have no true will of their own.

As if every action were written long ago, in a book.

But deep, deep inside his spark, Primus knows that at the end of _this_ dream, he will do something he has been sorely behind on getting around to.

He will wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Love Takes Hostages (pt 2)

**Author**: Ebony Kain (Ithilgwath)

**Rating**: totally worksafe (for now. Rating subject to change as the story progresses)

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I don't own Transformers (well, I own a couple action figures, but…). Nor do I own the Endless. Alas!

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><p><em>"I didn't know you could stop being a god."<em>

_"You can stop being anything."_

_Delirium and Dream, in Sandman #43: "Brief Lives: 3" _

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><p>Once a person gets the hang of it, going through life without a body is a lot more fun than Starscream would have previously credited. Hauntings are hilarious (who would have guessed the new Prime would be able to see him? And actually be a decent conversationalist? Though to be fair, the frequent bouts of self-doubt that mechling had are enough to drive a decent mech to the high grade.), and the whole possession thing, once he got the knack for it, has been a Pit-damned riot!<p>

It had also, Starscream was thankful for, saved his old friend Octane. And Rodimus Prime had, for reasons the ghostly Seeker could only guess at, actually helped him.

It could have just been as simple as "the enemy of my enemy is my friend," perhaps. And anyone trying to take out _Galvatron_ is decidedly on Starscream's good list. But it might have been the fact that, when Starscream had first been learning to deal with the no-more-body thing, Rodimus was the only one who could see him. And that had made Starscream inclined to actually listen to the Autobot when he needed someone to unburden to. Just for the contact.

"No seriously, this is just wrong," Starscream muses as he stares down into the cube of high grade Rodimus had just dropped in front of the mech Starscream is currently wearing. Some grunt who'd been about two steps from blowing himself up before the Seeker jumped into his body and handily avoided the land mine that would have blown the Prime's whole team sky-high. "You have all these... friends or something. I don't know. They like you. That's got to count for something. And you are surrounded by them. All the time."

Starscream takes a sip, sighing in enjoyment of something he'd been sure he wouldn't get to sample again, before continuing with a pointed look at the Prime taking heavy gulps from his own cube, "And it's the most notorious of all Decepticons that you can talk about this to."

"Me," he stresses, "You come to _me_, of all mechs, when you have a crisis of faith."

Great. And now the little garish little firebug looks downright morose.

"It's just..." Rodimus buys himself some time taking another swig of his cube. At this rate the kid will be falling down before he even stands up from his chair. Maybe Starscream should com. Springer before it goes much further. Or Kup. Just to have someone ready for it. But they both gave Starscream a hard time whenever they knew it was him, and since they'd been there when he stopped the idiot from killing them all, they know who he's currently wearing.

But they are no where nearly as bad as whenever Arcee knew he was hanging around. Unicron's aft, but that mech is vicious. And possessive. Almost makes Starscream want to wear Springer for a day to seduce Rodimus, just see what would happen.

Almost. There is something about Rodimus that makes Starscream feel like it would be robbing the crèche to take the mech to bed.

"Just what?" Starscream prompts irritably when the Autobot doesn't continue.

"I'll never be anything like Optimus was!" the Prime finally bursts, slapping his cube down to the desk and nearly spilling all over his datapads. "Optimus was a true leader, an _icon_! He fought so bravely and led us all so well and I'm never going to be that!"

Starscream says nothing for a while. There is something curling and squirming inside him, near where his host's spark is, but decidedly unrelated to the physical body he's wearing. "You mean that Optimus was a _war_ leader. A commander. And you don't think you are."

Something like relief settles into Rodimus' expression as the young Prime nods. He's relieved that Starscream seems to get it. And the Seeker does. Maybe. On some level. He remembers trying so _hard_, in the beginning, to get Megatron's attention, reforming himself into something new again and again in a desperate attempt to _keep_ it. And always feeling like a failure, no matter what. It was just... never enough.

Starscream's borrowed hand tightens on the cube as he keeps his borrowed optics on Rodimus. "Good."

Now it is shock that plasters itself to the Prime's faceplates. Starscream nods—to himself, to Rodimus, to the universe at large.

"Good," he repeats with hard conviction. "Maybe this means you'll act like a _real_ Prime, then."

Ooo, now he's gotten anger to rise up in that expression. Good, good. That's always better than the depression, and lots more fun. Rodimus leans forward aggressively, "What the Pit do mean by that?"

Ah, a bit of hero worship, then. "Just what I said," Starscream slouches insolently in his chair, sipping delicately at his cube once again. "Optimus was a warrior. Granted, he needed to be or you lot would all have been wiped out when Megatron was just getting started.

"But tell me something, Roddy," Starscream's smirk grows as blue optics narrow at the casual use of a private nickname, "Just what do you think Primes did for allllll those vorns we _weren't_ at war?"

That brings the sports car up short. Obviously he's never thought about it before. Starscream reminds himself that Rodimus Prime is _young_. How many files exist in his memory banks that are dated from before Megatron's uprising? Any? And it wasn't as if Sentinel had been doing all that great a job before Optimus—not to speak _ill_ of the dead or anything, but that mech had been too eager to hand over any power he had to the Senate if it got him out of dealing with, well... anything.

All things considered, then, Starscream supposes that a priest taking up arms at least showed he still _cared_.

The ghostly Seeker resets his borrowed vocalizer and doesn't give Rodimus the chance to answer.

"The Primes are the high priests of Primus, you ignorant scrapheap," he'd meant the insult to sound more biting, but he just sounds exhausted instead. Must be from the mech he's wearing. Might be time to vacate soon.

"Your duties as a Prime do _not_, in fact, include killing or leading others to kill your fellow Cybertronians. That bauble," Starscream points to the flashy paintjob on the younger mech's chest-plates, "is meant to put you in direct communication with Primus, not sit as storage for dead mechs' memory files."

Oh blackholes and antimatter, the kid's got his thinking face on. Would wonders never cease? He is actually listening. And who was the last mech to actually do that?

Oh. Wait. Spoke too soon, then, if that frown is any indication.

"And why would _you_ know what a Prime is supposed to be, then?" Rodimus sits back in his chair, suspicious. "You said it yourself, you're the most notorious Decepticon. You've probably got some scheme cooking away in that processor of you—er, whatever it is you have now. Why should I believe anything you've got to say on the matter of Primes?"

The borrowed mech's supraorbital ridge slides upward. Starscream answers in the driest, most deadpan voice he can, "Because I'm very old, and very wise."

It earns him nothing more than a scoffing snort. Starscream stares up at the ceiling, a glare contorting unfamiliar facial actuators. Sometimes he doesn't even know why he bothers. Why he sticks around at all. He doesn't even know what it is he hopes to accomplish.

But.

"Fine," he breathes through borrowed vents and vocalizer, "Fine. Then use it like it's nothing more than a massive storage device, and search through dead mechs' memories. See what you find. Or watch all the vid. files of them interfacing and jack to them. I don't care. You're _all_ a bunch of fragging idiots and I. Don't. _Care_."

And then he's bursting out of the borrowed mech's frame, straight up through the ceiling and the next two floors. He doesn't even know where the fury comes from. It's not like he's unfamiliar with being mistrusted. With not being listened to. Megatron had done it all the time. Pit, his own trinemates had. Rodimus isn't the first. Probably won't be the last.

It's not supposed to hurt.

Starscream slows his ascent when he reaches the ground floor. He pauses to look around, not bothering to exert the energy to make himself visible to any of the Autobots walking around. What would be the point?

Black and white and a familiar sigil catch his attention, and he stops. She's heading toward the Medical Wing.

"I—" he starts, without meaning to. But it is enough to catch her attention in turn.

Death turns, waving to him with a cheery smile. "Hey there! Didn't think you were around here now. Weren't you hanging out with that friend of yours?"

"Octane?" Starscream is surprised she's paid that much attention to his doings. Though there were a few near-misses Octane managed to avoid. Maybe she'd just been in the area. "Ah, no. He and his... well, Sandstorm. It was interesting to watch the first few times, but it gets rather old just watching."

He doesn't really want to get into it. That sort of intimacy is something he misses fiercely, and can never get while just borrowing a body. Tactile overload is fun, but just not the same. And he really needs to change the subject before he starts dwelling on it again.

"Who are you here for, then?"

She nods, "Lojack's lasercore was too damaged in the fight today. His spark chamber ruptured just before First Aid was able to get his chest-plates open." She still smiles as she says it, turning to continue on toward the Medic Wing. Starscream wonders how she's able to smile considering everything she must have seen, every moment. The hate and the fear, the destruction, the torture, the callous disregard. But she's never disgusted by those she walks off with.

But then again, she is Death. What else is there, after her? She can afford to be so... easy-going.

Starscream stands his ground. As familiar as he's become with her, actually talking with her on occasion, he is still suspicious of following, or going anywhere with her. He refuses to be tricked into it. Just in case.

"What happens," he blurts out, anyway, because he needs to get it out and she's already to the next corner, "when gods die?"

"You're so sure it's any different than when anyone else does?" She pauses again, grinning a small grin over her shoulder, "Well, I guess you'll find out on our date."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Love Takes Hostages (pt 3)

**Author**: Ebony Kain (Ithilgwath)

**Rating**: totally worksafe (for now. Rating subject to change as the story progresses)

**Disclaimer**: Sadly I don't own Transformers (well, I own a couple action figures, but…). Nor do I own the Endless. Alas!

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><p><em>"If the city was dreaming," he told me, "then the city is asleep. And I do not fear cities sleeping, stretched out unconscious around their rivers and estuaries, like cats in the moonlight. <em>_Sleeping cities are tame and harmless things. What I fear," he said, "is that one day he cities wi__ll waken. That one day the cities will rise." _

_The man who got lost in the dreams of a city, in __Sandman_ _#51: "A Tale of Two Cities": World's End _

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><p>Most things that Starscream said to him, Rodimus just puts out of his mind. The dead Seeker isn't a friend, after all. And the only reason the Prime doesn't consider him an enemy outright is because, well, he's dead. Though once he started possessing people Rodimus had gotten nervous. But the ex-Seeker never really did anything that had harmed the Autobots (wait, amend that—he hasn't harmed the Autobots since he <em>died<em> anyway. He did a Pit-damned _lot_ of harm while he'd been alive).

But really, Rodimus figured the guy was just lonely. No one else had been able to see him, or hear him, and Starscream had only managed to move anything while throwing a temper tantrum.

It was kind of sad. And Hot Rod had always hated being alone most of anything, himself. He couldn't even imagine going through that—surrounded by people but with _no one_ to interact with. No one to talk to. No one to just... not even hand-holding, let along hugs and recharging side by side.

So he had let Starscream know. Rodimus could see him. Hear him.

After that the Seeker had been harder to get rid of than a space-barnacle. Only real fits of rage would send the white, red and blue ghost off away from them all for a while (but really, a Decepticon crypt? _That_'s where he went to sulk? Talk about morbid)_._

Of course, now Rodimus is wondering if that's where Starscream is now. He hadn't thought their conversation the other orn was going that badly. Honestly, since when does the Seeker just expect him to take what he says at face value? Usually Starscream gets pissy when Rodimus does that.

Talking with the Seeker could be likened to navigating a minefield.

...Maybe that's why he's so good at finding them before the troops did.

Rodimus sighs, playing with a stylus on his desk. He kind of wants to com. Springer. Maybe Arcee. But they're both busy, he knows, and keeping their Prime alive might be part of their jobs, but keeping him from getting lonely and depressed aren't.

It's not like they'll have any better idea about these reports coming in that cities all over Cybertron seem to be, well, changing. The ruins of Crystal City had apparently transformed into a crystal _forest_ over the course of mega-cycle. Reports from Yuss claimed that the Acid Wastes in the Stanix region appear to be healing, somehow. The acid rains stopped, and it had been confirmed by Autobot scouts that the Neutrals weren't lying. Turbofoxes, almost extinct, had been sighted in the area. Minerals seem to be growing up from the ground in stalagmite-like formations, some growing into each other and forming arches.

Kaon, apparently, had simply _moved_ a good hundred hics in a single orn. The magnetic pole it had once sat on appeared to be a gaping crater that even the Decepticons were too freaked out to investigate. Ultra Magnus' spies had reported that no one in the area had felt anything when it happened. No one _noticed_ until after it was already over. Galvatron appeared to be more irrational than ever, but luckily most of that seems to be taking form as an extreme paranoia that Unicron will be returning.

Rodimus couldn't rule it out. Cybertron changing right under their feet is downright _freaky_.

He wishes Starscream would come back already. He wants to pick the Seeker's processor. He seems to know so much about things he shouldn't, why wouldn't he have something to say about this?

Or. Wait. Maybe.

Rodimus leans back in his seat, stylus still grasped loosely between his digits. He stares vacantly at the door to his office a moment before dropping his gaze to his own chest-plates.

I couldn't hurt, right? The Matrix is a sacred thing. Holding the collective knowledge of the Primes. Even if Starscream had been lying, and it wasn't a direct com. line to Primus... maybe some of the other Primes had lived through something similar?

It is an idea.

A crazy idea posed by crazy dead Seeker.

But what if he was right?

Cycling his vents a few times, Rodimus executes the command to open his plates, staring into the bright light of the Matrix as it is revealed.

Not knowing what else to do from there, the young Prime simply asks.

"Hello, Primus. It's me, Rodimus. ...Are you there?"

It is an idea.

A crazy idea posed by crazy dead Seeker.

But what if he was right?


End file.
